


like a mallet to the temple

by theMightyPen



Series: slowly, then all at once [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, PWP without Porn, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: Eomer has always considered himself an observant man. Which is why the fact that it takes him nearly drowning to realize he loves his wife not a little discomforting.(Or, in which Eomer is just catching on to something the entirety of Edoras has known for months.)





	like a mallet to the temple

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'righteous in wrath'.

* * *

 

 

Eomer has always considered himself an observant man.

He has had to be since his youth, when his uncle and country have required his service. Bema knows any  _ eorlingas _ who rides in an  _ eored _ must be ready, at a moment’s notice, for danger and action. To be able to assess a situation for its risks and to respond to them whip-fast is second nature to him.

Which is why the sudden give of rotted wood under his feet is nothing short of shocking.

Oh, he’d known the bridge needed work; that was part of the reason they were here. The lack of able-bodied men in the Westfold had meant disrepair for many of the remaining structures, this bridge included. With the swelling of the Isen after the snow melts of early spring, the bridge’s state could no longer be ignored. And while technically the King’s presence wasn’t  _ needed _ for the repair of a bridge, Eomer is not an idle man by nature, and had jumped at the chance to ride Firefoot more than 3 miles outside of Edoras for the first time in months.

Lothiriel had rolled her eyes at his eagerness, fond but exasperated, but had dutifully given him the bread and ale to start his journey with her blessings.

The memory of her parting smile is vivid in his mind’s eye as he falls.

_ Oh Bema _ , he thinks,  _ I cannot die this way, because of some rotted wood and my stubborn pride! I cannot leave the Mark leaderless, I cannot go to the halls of my fathers without having told my wife that I love her-- _

Somehow, he manages to catch one of the support beams with his hand. The force of his impact wrenches his shoulder and he grits his teeth against the pain. But his grip holds long enough for him to press his feet against another beam, balancing precariously as he does so. It is a relief, sharp and heady, even as he becomes aware of the frantic yelling above him and the roar of the wild water of the river below him.

Eothain’s bellowing curses can be heard above it all.

“Bema  _ curse _ your pride, Eomer, son of Eomund!” He is yelling.

“Perhaps you should task Him with something more helpful at the moment,” Eomer manages to call back up, once his blood isn’t rushing so frantically in his ears. His grip is holding and his feet are well-braced, for now. But his reserves of strength will not last forever and his shoulder is throbbing in a worrying way.

A rope appears before him, a hastily tied knot at its end, and Eomer grabs it with his other hand. It is his weaker arm, not his sword arm, and for a moment he fears he will not be able to support his own weight with it. And a fall into the swollen river in his armor would be a sure death sentence.

Lothiriel’s smile flashes in his memory again. No. He cannot fail her, or the Mark.

He grips the rope tightly and yells his readiness up to Eothain.

He does not fall again.

 

* * *

 

Eothain is pacing like particularly agitated rooster, back and forth, across the healer’s tent.

Eomer, who has already had his ears blistered by the healer and a white-faced Erkenbrand, waits for his friend’s inevitable outburst. It will be a welcome distraction from the dull throb of pain in his shoulder. The same desperate grab that likely saved his life also wrenched his arm from its socket, and the healer putting it back in alignment had been far from pleasant.  

“ _ Awiergest _ !” Eothain finally explodes. “Do you know how badly you scared all of us today?”

“Yes, the yelling did give it away,” Eomer snips, pain making him surly.

“King or not, do not take that tone with me after you nearly drowned yourself. Bema above, Eomer, you could have  _ died! _ ”

“Yes,” Eomer says, voice tight with the remembered panic, “I know.”

Eothain groans, tugging on his already wild red hair. “And who would have had to explain it to the council? To your sister? To your  _ wife _ ? Me, that’s who! ‘Terribly sorry you’re short a husband, Lothiriel Queen, but I let Eomer walk across a bridge as sturdy as a pile of newborn foal’s legs because he would not hear of not being involved in its reparation for nothing less than his damnable pride’--’”

“Eothain, enough.”

“It is not! I always that thought your temper would bring you trouble, but now I see it is your stubbornness that is the real danger!”

“Eothain--”

“You will be lucky if the council doesn’t lock you in Meduseld until you and Lothiriel have a child! Do you know what your death would have done to our peace? To your friends, your family--”

“ _ Eothain _ ,” he hisses, “ _ I. Know. _ ”

His friend stops, looking closely at him. Some of the turmoil Eomer is feeling must be plain on his face--the very real fear that he could have drowned, the thought of leaving his people rudderless so soon after the War, the idea that Lothiriel would be left alone, never knowing how he truly felt about her--for Eothain softens. He strides towards him and claps a hand to Eomer’s uninjured shoulder.

“Have I told you that I am glad that you did  _ not _ drown yet?”

Eomer snorts, slightly. “No.”

“My mistake. I am very glad you did not drown, Eomer King. And gladder still that  _ you _ will have to be the unfortunate one to inform your wife and sister about this...event.”

Eomer cringes. Bema, Eowyn would have his  _ hide _ for being so reckless. And Lothiriel…

“I can’t imagine she’ll be pleased,” Eothain says, startling him, for Eomer had not realized he’s spoken aloud. “But I suspect she, like me, will be too relieved that you are well to truly stay angry with you.”

Eomer’s lips twitch in a semblance of a smile. Yes, his wife is not known for her grudge-holding. She has been a balm in so many ways, but still a surprise in others--he cannot sit in his study without thinking of the first night she’d come to him out of sheer yearning, dressed in a nightgown so fine he feared it might tear at the first touch of his hands. The sudden desire to be near her, to have her nose pressed against the hollow of his throat, to feel the silky glide of her hair through his fingers, to hear her familiar voice with its slight Gondorian accent, is nigh overwhelming. Bema, how had he not known before now, the depth of what it is he feels for her?

“Eothain,” he says, slowly, “I have not--I did not realize, ‘til now--”

Eothain’s eyebrow is arched. “Realize what, Eomer?”

“That I love her,” he admits. “That I  _ have  _ loved her--”

Eothain gives another mighty groan. “You--Bema, have you gone  _ blind _ at some point in the last year?”

Eomer scowls. “Helpful.”

His captain barks a laugh. “Can you blame me for saying so? I have seen the way you look at her--all of Edoras has! She calms you in a way that nothing and no one has been able to do so before. She does not fear your temper, she is wily enough to keep the council on their toes, and Bema knows she’s beautiful. What, exactly, did you think you felt towards her?”

Eomer grinds his teeth. His earlier assessment as being an observant man feels less true by the minute. It is obvious, now, what he’s felt. But he had remained blind until the moment of falling, the depth of it, the sheer  _ importance  _ of Lothiriel in his life.

But had they not wed for sense and convenience alone? Love had been a word they had both flinched from, when their marriage contract had been negotiated. Lothiriel had not been raised to expect such a thing in a marriage and Eomer had not _ wanted _ it--how could he, after losing nearly all of his family to violence and despair?

Of course, it has been more than a year since they wed. They are neither of them the same as they were when Imrahil had first presented them with the idea. Eomer does not doubt that Lothiriel values his friendship, nor can he deny her attraction to him, but those...those are not the same as love. He cannot force her to feel as he does.

Eothain’s hand comes down on his shoulder again. “Don’t brood, sire. I know the idea of telling her might be daunting--”

Eomer snorts again. As if Eothain can understand! He and his wife had been sweethearts from their teen years, so smitten that Wilfled’s father had marched them down the aisle three days after her eighteenth nameday, out of fear of a grandchild arriving prematurely.

“--but she deserves to know. And soon. If today had gone ill…”

“She might not have ever known it,” Eomer finishes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know, Eothain. It was all I could think about during the damn fall…”

He receives another pat of sympathy. “Tell her, then. I think you have little cause to fear anything other than a happy reception on that front, Eomer.”

Still, he cannot banish the niggling doubt that she feels only friendship and attraction, and his declaration will make her uncomfortable, even unhappy. Bema help him, he could not bear to make her unhappy. If only she were here, now, and he could talk to her, see her familiar face and gauge her reaction--

They will ride for Edoras in the morning, he decides. Pain in his shoulder or not, the thought of waiting to see Lothiriel after coming so close to never being able to see her again, is far worse.

 

* * *

 

Lothiriel and Wilfled are midway through sewing a maternity-friendly nightgown for Eowyn when the doors to the solar suddenly burst open. In her surprise, Wilfled stabs her finger with her sewing needle and curses, while Lothiriel quickly rescues the gown from the danger of becoming blood-stained.

“Lothiriel Queen!” Layfled, youngest, most freckled, and least experienced of all of Meduseld’s serving girls, cries breathlessly. “I--Mistress Saulwyn says--she says--”

“Breathe, Layfled,” Lothiriel soothes, setting the gown down to take the girl’s hands in hers. “What is it that Saulwyn needs from me?”

“To join her on the steps, right away! The King’s  _ eored _ has been spotted!”

Lothiriel bites her lip to keep from grinning. Oh, Valar, but she has missed him! It has only been a few weeks, but Meduseld feels so much more  _ empty _ without Eomer. Much as she has come to love her new home, it does not feel truly complete without his presence.

“They are home much earlier than expected,” Wilfled says, drifting over to stand beside them. She cuts a sly glance in Lothiriel’s direction. “Someone must be impatient.”

“As if your husband isn’t!” Lothiriel laughs, tucking her arm around her friend’s as they make their way into the hall. “I seem to recall a certain couple being caught kissing  _ very  _ passionately against the wall of the stables during the spring festival after a separation of only two days--”

Wilfled elbows her into silence as they make their way through Meduseld’s hallways. The rest of the hall is abuzz with happy energy. Many a sweetheart and wife have been gathered and they all trickle out towards the front landing, with its magnificent view.

Saulwyn bears the tray of welcoming bread and ale and baulks as she always does when Lothiriel tries to help her with it. “It is my duty, my lady. You stand there and look happy to see our King.”

It is not a difficult request, for Lothiriel is  _ very _ happy at the thought of having Eomer back in  Edoras. Her heart gives a ridiculous lurch as the riders come into view. Atop Firefoot and with his famous horse-tail helm, he would be impossible to miss, even if she were not trying to drink in the sight of him like a parched traveller would do with water in the deserts of Harad.

Their people are calling welcomes as the  _ eored _ draws nearer, to friends and brothers and husbands, but Lothiriel only has eyes for her  _ own _ husband, who is scanning the crowd gathered on the landing with a surprising level of intensity.

Their gazes meet and Lothiriel is powerless to stop from smiling at him.

Strangely, he does not return her smile. Compounding this oddness is the way he swings down from Firefoot almost the minute they come to a stop, far less controlled than usual. He all but barrels up the steps, causing a titter when he wrenches his beloved helm from his head and carelessly drops it on the ground as he goes. Lothiriel’s mouth falls open in shock--it is unlike him to be careless with anything he owns, let alone something he values as much as his helm! 

The titters only increase, in volume and intensity, when he fails to stop to take bread and ale from Saulwyn, instead moving passed her and into Lothiriel’s space in all of three steps.

“Eomer, what in Arda--”

He is kissing her before she can finish the question. He nearly bends her her backwards with the force of the kiss, arm banded tightly around her. It is desperate thing, far more passionate than the kisses they usually share in the view of so many, but Lothiriel is too overwhelmed by his nearness to mind. Surprise shifts quickly to heat and she reaches up to twine her arms around his neck, pulling him as close as she dares in public. The sudden wet glide of his tongue in her mouth is shocking and embarrassingly, completely wanted, and her arms tighten, hand splaying helplessly on his shoulder. That, of all things, has him pulling back, just enough so that their mouths are no longer touching, with a small hiss.

Lothiriel blinks in confusion. Why would that--

She catches sight of the sling, the way his sword arm is bundled against his chest. Now it is her turn to make a noise of distress. “You are hurt!” She cries.

Eomer swallows, thickly, his forehead still pressed to hers. “It is nothing.”

“It is  _ not _ nothing,” Lothiriel argues. “What happened? Was there an attack? Are you alright?”

The warm, calloused weight of his fingers around her chin stops her rapid fire questions. “I am fine,” he assures her, dark eyes full of some emotion she can’t quite name, thumb moving in a soothing motion over her skin, “I just...I wanted to come home.”

The  _ to you _ is unspoken, but dangles in the air between them as an almost tangible thing.

“A _ hem _ ,” someone coughs, causing them both to jump.

They turn in unison to meet Saulwyn’s unamused stare. “Touching as this is, Your Majesties, there is an  _ eored _ of men here who’d like to go home to their families.”

Which they cannot do until Eomer has partaken in the welcoming bread and ale. Which he quickly  _ does _ , looking chastised. But he keeps her hand firmly in his uninjured one after he drains the goblet...as if he is afraid to release her. Lothiriel squeezes his fingers in question, but he will not meet her eyes.

Mercifully, Eothain does and offers her a small shrug that has heart settling down in her chest a little. No attack, then, for the only thing Eothain values more than Wilfled’s safety is that of his friend and king’s.

“Eomer,” she murmurs, after Saulwyn has moved off to offer the welcoming ale to the rest of the men, “talk to me, please.”

His hand tightens in hers. “Not here.”

That is fair enough; there are still a large number of people milling about who have already seen enough of a display between their King and Queen. Lothiriel can be patient, even if the anxiety and concern feels like a riot of butterflies under her skin, so different and decidedly less welcome than the heat from Eomer’s kiss of return.

Mercifully, the councilors are warded off by Eomer’s grim expression and Lothiriel’s own look of caution when they try to approach. Patience she has, but not enough to wait while they try to clamor for her husband’s attention. She will be the first to hear what has caused him such injury. It is her right as Queen, as his wife, as the woman that loves him--whether she has found the courage to tell him so or not.

It is this thought that has her leading him--more forcefully than her usual wont--towards their chambers, leaving the chatter of the main hall behind them. Still, he says nothing as she pulls the door shut behind them. What he does instead is--

_ Oh _ , Lothiriel manages to think, tears welling up in her eyes as he all but wraps himself around her, injured arm and all. Eomer ducks his head, tucking his nose into the curve of her neck as she does her best to get her arms all the way around him as well. It is an impossible task, as it always has been--he is simply too broad for her to do so easily, and the sling makes the attempt even more unlikely--but  _ still _ . The desire to be close is there, for both of them, and that is enough.

“What  _ happened _ ?” She asks, keeping her voice as soft as possible.

For a moment, Eomer doesn’t answer. He simply shifts her nearer, lifting his head as he goes and dragging his nose along the shell of her ear, which sets off a very ill-timed set of shivers. He is hurt! And plainly upset about  _ something _ . It is hardly the time for desire, no matter the desperation of his earlier kiss or the now-familiar sensations his nearness often inspires in her.

“Eomer,” Lothiriel prompts again.

She earns a deep sigh and then--

“I fell. The bridge--it was in worse shape than we realized and I insisted, stupidly, on helping inspect it myself. The wood gave way. If I had not caught myself--”

He stops at the sound of obvious distress she makes, running a soothing hand through her hair.

“I did, though the healer informed me I pulled my shoulder out of place. He fixed it, of course, and then I had to endure Eothain cursing me, my stubbornness, and bridges in general for the better part of two hours--”

“Good,” Lothiriel interrupts, alarm making her sharper than she means to be, “that will save me the trouble of doing so.”

Eomer sighs. “You have every right to be angry with me, Lothiriel. I nearly drowned for no reason other than my own damnable pride.”

“And then you rode home with your arm in such a way! Ulwen’s sweet mercy, Eomer! What possessed you to do such a thing?”

Eomer is plainly hesitant about answering, which only serves to make her angrier. He would ride home, injured, with no care for himself, but he cannot tell her why?

“I--it was not as serious as that--”

“Not as serious? You said it yourself: you could have  _ drowned _ . The shock from that alone should have kept you from riding, let alone having a badly injured arm--”

“I wanted to come home--”

“So you said! Should you not have thought of that before climbing that bridge? Before you almost fell to your death and left your people and country leaderless? And me a widow--”

The sudden grip of his hand on her arm stops her. His expression now is---well, nearly  _ wild _ , his pupils blown wide with fear or frustration; which one she could not say for certain.

“That is why I had to come. I have wasted so much time in the dark-- _ ignoring _ \--”

“Ignoring  _ what _ ?”

“That I love you. Bema, Lothiriel,  _ that _ was what drove me home against caution and reason. Of all of the things that happened in the past two days, that was what frightened me most: that I could have died without telling you so.”

 

* * *

 

The words are scarcely out of his mouth before he grimaces.

This is not how he meant to tell her at  _ all _ . She’s angry with him, to start with, and he’d had an entire...well, he’s loathe to use the word  _ speech _ , but  _ speech _ planned, crafted carefully during the long ride from Westfold. It was supposed to be delivered gently, with express intent that she need not return his feelings, only that he could no longer pretend they did not exist, and--

A sudden--and unwelcome--knock at the door makes them both jump. Eomer winces at the jolt of pain that twinges his shoulder. Lothiriel, keen-eyed as ever, sees this and frowns. Though his obvious discomfort, from both arm and the truth he’s just blurted out so callously, fails to stop her from hurrying to the door to see who has need of them.

It is Edoras’s chief healer, laden down with various bottles and fresh strips of bandages. “Mistress Saulwyn sent me,” he explains, sounding far too cheerful for the tense air of their chambers, “if you’d like my help, sire?”

Eomer opens his mouth to answer, but it’s Lothiriel who manages a response first, saying, “That is very kind of you, Master Aldor. But unnecessary--I can tend to my husband.”

Aldor’s brow furrows. “You need not, my Queen, I am most capable--”

“It is not you I doubt. It is only that I--I want to do this myself. I have been well-taught by Gondor’s own healers. You need not fear for the safety of Eomer’s sword arm.”

The healer’s eyes dart from Lothiriel to Eomer. Whatever he sees--despite it feeling  _ anything _ other than humorous to Eomer himself--makes him smile. “If you are certain, Lothiriel Queen. I have plenty of other duties I can attend to.”

“I am sure, Master Aldor. Thank you again.”

He exits with a bow, shutting the door behind him with something that sounds  _ suspiciously _ like a chuckle. Eomer swallows as Lothiriel bustles about the room, arranging the healer’s supplies on one of the low tables nearest the fire. The sharp, jerky movements of her hands are obvious indicators that she is still displeased with him.

And Eomer cannot blame her. Bad enough that he had been reckless with his own life, but to have reveal something of such importance with such little care--

“Can you lift your arm?” She asks, startling him out of his morose musings.

Eomer blinks, lifting his eyes to hers. She is startlingly calm, despite the fine tremors he can still see in her hands. Ah. She must not feel the same, then, and is attempting to do them both a favor by pretending his hasty declaration never occurred.

“Enough,” he admits and starts to do so.

Lothiriel’s gentle hands stop him, soft and careful over his own. “You’ll need to sit first. You are far too tall for me to adjust the sling while standing, I’m afraid.”

Even though his gut is roiling with rejection, he cannot deny that it would be simpler for him to sit. And he would do her bidding without complaint for much more difficult tasks.

So he sits, feeling heavy as a stone, on the edge of their bed. Lothiriel unwinds the sling carefully. It comes off without much pain, thank Bema. Though Eomer very nearly flinches at the sensation of her fingers at the laces of his shirtfront. But he knows his wife is thorough in all things; if she said she would treat his shoulder, she will. She would not have sent Master Aldor away otherwise, despite the fact that her silence clearly indicates that she does not return his feelings.

Lothiriel’s sudden intake of breath pulls his attention back to her. She is looking at his shoulder with clear concern. Eomer cannot fault her for that, either; it far from pretty, mottled with bruises and slightly swollen.

“Oh, Eomer,” she murmurs, laying a gentle hand to the least bruised spot.

The tenderness in her voice stings. He does not doubt that she cares for him. He cannot, knowing her as he does. But knowing that she does not feel the same as he does--that he has her friendship, only, and not her heart in the way she has stolen his--aches  _ worse  _ in the face of her obvious worry.

“It’s nothing,” he says gruffly, trying to keep the irrational hurt from his voice. “I have suffered worse, my lady.”

Lothiriel’s eyes flick up to his. “My lady? You have not called me that in months.”

Eomer shifts, trying not to jostle his shoulder as he does so.”You are angry with me. I did not want to presume you would welcome me using your name.”

Lothiriel blinks rapidly before her mouth goes tight in a thin line. She lifts her hand from his shoulder, turning back to the supplies brought by the healer. “I am not angry with you,” she murmurs, “and even if I was, I would never ask you to call me anything other than my name. You are my friend--”

“Yes,” Eomer grits out. “Your  _ friend _ .”

She whirls back towards him and guilt rises in his throat, hot and choking, when he realizes she is crying. “Yes, my friend. My king. My  _ husband _ . And yet I sent you off to the Westmark without--at least you had not told me out of true ignorance, rather than--than  _ cowardice _ \--”

It is Eomer’s turn to blink. “Lothiriel--”

“I am not angry with you. I am angry with  _ myself _ , because you could have died without  _ me  _ telling you that I love you. And I have known it for months but could not find the words, nor the courage, to tell you so.”

Relief fills him, heady and bright. He stands as quickly as he can, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he does so. What does a little pain matter, if she loves him? And she does--he can see that now, in the plainly teary look she gives him as he draws closer and brushes his good hand over her cheek.

“At least you had the good sense to know it,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb along the line of her cheekbone, so soft he cannot help but wonder at it, and at the fact that she loves him in turn. “And if that makes you a coward for not saying so, it is far better than I had been, as the fool who did not realize it.”

She gives a helpless laugh despite the tears in her eyes and presses her face further into his hand. “Fool and coward we were, then. At least we are still well-matched.”  

“Aye,  _ coleowen min _ ,” Eomer agrees. He bends to press a kiss to her forehead. “ _ Gesinge min _ .” Another to the line of her cheekbone. And because he can be brave if she can, in this: “ _ Mðdleófu _ \--”

She is kissing him in truth before he can get the full word out. He can only curse his injured shoulder for a few seconds, for not being able to hold her properly, before the heady feeling of her mouth on his drowns out all other thoughts. He groans into her mouth when she gives his bottom lip a slow, sensual tug with her teeth, her hands creeping carefully ‘round his ribcage to hold him nearer.

Bema, he thought he knew what desire was, before now. Their marriage bed has been far from cold, after all. But the knowledge of shared love between them only serves to make it even more potent. So he sees no reason not to sink his free hand into her hair, to press her tighter against his body so that she can feel how strongly she affects him.

Lothiriel makes a pleased, breathy noise as he pulls back to wind a string of kisses along her throat. Her hands tremble against his side as he continues to kiss down the column of her neck, the small patch of skin laid bare by the neckline of her gown.

“You are wearing,” he murmurs, pausing long enough to slide his hand down the line of her spine, “entirely too much clothing,  _ mðdleófu _ .”

“The same could be said of you,” Lothiriel answers, though he’s pleased to hear the unmistakable tremor of desire in her voice.

Out of habit, he goes to reach for the ties of his breeches with his left hand.

“ _ Helle _ ,” Eomer spits, harshly, as his shoulder throbs in response.

Lothiriel hums in sympathy, easing his arm back into a more comfortable position. She makes quick work of his breeches, blushing only a little when she tugs them down his legs, before attending to her own dress. Mercifully, it’s not one of the more complicated ones she brought from Gondor, but instead one in the cut of the Mark, good and sturdy for the climate and--most importantly, in Eomer’s mind--easy to remove.

His want of her has not been stymied by the ache in his shoulder, though as she stands before him in just her shift and stockings, another problem quickly dawns. They have only ever--it is not to say that their marital bed has been  _ boring _ \--indeed, there have been days when he has wanted to neglect every other aspect of being Lord of the Mark to remain there, with Lothiriel--but she’d been a maiden when they’d wed. He has been wary of trying anything...unorthodox. And he enjoys the closeness of their usual love-making, but with his shoulder in its current state, he does not think he could manage it, without significant pain.

“Lothiriel,” he starts to say, regret bitter as bile in his mouth, “I should have thought--”

“Of your shoulder,” she interrupts, with a wry smile. “I suppose it’s a good thing that I did, then.”

Eomer blinks in surprise, and that surprise makes him pliant as his tiny wife all but manhandles him into their bed, leaning him up against the headboard before climbing in beside him.

“Ladies talk too, you know,” she says, reaching out to skim her knuckles gently over his cheek, “and while I have no complaints of our usual routine, I do not think it would be particularly comfortable, at present.”

Eomer’s throat goes bone dry when she swings a leg over his, settling onto his lap with ease, despite the now riotous blush in her cheeks.

“Bema,” he manages to choke out. “Who--how-- _ why _ \--”

“Well,” Lothiriel murmurs, rocking her hips just enough to pull a rumbling moan from him, “I am Queen of the Mark, am I not? Should I not test my skills as a rider?”

Eomer manages a laugh and pulls her forward for a searing kiss. “I love you.”

Her smile softens, goes tender. “And I love you. Now, perhaps the King of the Mark would like to give his Queen his best set of instructions on proper riding technique--”

 

* * *

 

(Lothiriel proves herself, again, a wonderful student in the traditions of the Riddermark.

Eomer, again, considers himself blessed indeed.)

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE ACTUAL SMUT I'M SORRY FRIENDS
> 
> But yeah. Sometimes your brain just wants to write idiots in love, and this is the result. 
> 
> Awiergest: Curse you!  
> Coelowen min: my Queen  
> Gesinge min: my wife  
> Modlufu: beloved


End file.
